Tainted Love
by Immael
Summary: "High chiselled cheek bones, startling blue eyes, hair like spun mithril, white-gold beneath the midday sun. But the allure hid only the underlying cruelty, of this she was certain..." In the midst of battle, Legolas is saved from almost certain death by a beautiful, mysterious Elleth. But why does she seem to hate him so? And can he melt her icy heart? Rating may change.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Hi everyone. This is my first fic, and I'm so excited. I really hope you'll like it. It will be M rated eventually, but I'm going for a slow burn, so there will be several chapters of buildup.

**Eruanne's POV**

Eruanne brushed the foliage aside with her fingers. Beneath the starlight her keen Elven eyes made out rank upon rank of tall warriors. Their armour glinted. She drew in a sharp breath. Sindar. There was no love lost between her people, the Dark Elves of the East, the Avari, and these tall blond Sindar. But with the rise of the Shadow in the East, they might have common purpose. Or equally, they might be her sworn enemies. Gripping her bow, she brushed her long, dark red braid behind her back and sprang lightly from the tree. With an almost imperceptible movement of long, elegant fingers, she gestured. Out of the shadows, a huge cat-like creature made its way to her side. Her fingers stroked its fur for a moment, then with the lightest of footsteps, she began to track them. At her heels, the giant beast, her soul-joined familiar, weaved between the tree trunks with feline grace.

What was a troop of Sindar doing creeping past the eaves of Fangorn forest? Eruanne puzzled over this as she followed in the shadows of the trees. From the intonation of their voices, she could tell they were Galadhrim from Lothlorien, not from the Greenwood. The Greenwood! Again, she took a deep breath. A wave of furious anger swept over her. She drew her normally full lips into a thin line of rage. Were they from the Greenwood, she would have found it hard to resist putting an arrow to her bow. How many of the accursed folk could she have slain before she lost her own life? She no longer cared if she lived or died, but revenge would have been sweet. But no, she controlled her breathing. These were not the people of Thranduil. She had no quarrel with them. Why then was she following them? Curiosity, pure and simple.

After several hours, they left the eaves of the forest and moved through the foothills of the White Mountains. Following them became harder. She hung back in the shadows of large boulders, her keen green eyes tracking their movements. At long last they entered a narrow valley with a shallow stream cascading down its centre. As she moved with silent grace, she rounded the flank of the hillside and finally saw their destination: a mannish fortress. They marched in files up the narrow causeway, over a sweeping stone arch and across the drawbridge into the fortress. Following as closely as she dared, she got close enough to see the Men high on the ramparts.

The Men were tall and broad chested, so different in build from the lithe, almost feline Elves. They bore spears and helms which caught the last glimmers of light from the stars, and from beneath their helms she could just make out long blond hair. But the stars were being rapidly blotted out by scudding clouds blowing in from the East. Under cover of the gathering gloom, Eruanne made her way still closer, skirting high up the hillside. She crept along a system of ledges on the savage cliffs which loomed over the fortress. Behind her, the huge cat followed. Even without the darkness, its spotted pelt would have blended into the rocks around them. Only its tawny eyes, flecked with sparks of green, showed up.

Now she was high up, she could see the scene in great detail. The last of the Sindar made their way across the drawbridge, and with a clanking of chains and creaking of wood, it was drawn up behind them. Suddenly the precariousness of her situation hit Eruanne. This was no small military force – this was the preparation for a battle and a siege. And she was on the outside. Outside, with whatever enemy they were preparing for.

A light drizzle started to fall. Then in the far distance behind her, from the valley she'd just climbed, she heard a low rumbling noise. An army was approaching. Squinting into the gloom, she saw the first vague shadows of the vanguard. Yrch! Orcs, thousands of them. And trolls. And the fearsome half-breeds that she'd seen when she'd ventured through Fangorn to the vale of Orthanc. The trolls towed vast siege engines. The orcs came to a halt in battle lines. They started to bang their spears on their shields, making a huge din. As if to underline the thread, the rain started to fall in earnest, pouring in sheets from the heavens.

She could see the Men standing on the battlements, bows drawn. Her eyes were drawn to a tall figure. Unlike the other Men, he had dark hair, and held a sword aloft. The ranks of archers stood tense, waiting the command to fire. Then a bolt of lightning rent the sky. In the flash of light she saw a second tall figure standing near the dark-haired man. Tall, slim yet muscular, blond, unmistakably Elven. Then a second flash lit him again. Eruanne recoiled back against the cliff face behind her. Thranduil – his harsh, cruel yet beautiful features. She passed her hand across her eyes, then breathed again. No, not the Elven King, but someone so like unto him that they must be close kin. The same arrogance, the same self assurance, the same magnetic attraction...

Then suddenly a lone arrow was loosed, and the huge Uruk at the front of the battle lines pitched forward into the mud. With a roar the hosts of Isengard threw themselves forward. The dark haired man on the battlements dropped his sword, and a hail of arrows fell among the oncoming wave. The battle had commenced. With an air of silent determination, the slight figure of the Elf woman leaped gracefully from ledge to ledge down the cliff to join the fray. Sindar they might be, but they were her people. If she could join battle against the dark hosts, she must.

**-0-**

So, what do you all think? Let me know – please, please review.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Wow, you guys are great – I can't get over how many reviews I've had – shout-outs at the end. And thanks as well to those of you who've been kind enough to favourite or follow this story.

**Legolas' POV**

"Thirteen, Master Elf," Gimli said smugly.

"I have surpassed your total easily, _mellon nin._ Twenty seven so far." Legolas looked smug. But the battle was far from over. Chaos raged round them. Wave after wave of the enemy had broken upon the ramparts, ladders pushed back from the battlements, siege engines forced away with long poles. Yet still the Orcs came, like black insects swarming over the stonework. A force of the monstrous Uruk Hai came up the stone causeway to the gatehouse, protecting themselves from the hail of arrows with their shields.

Legolas watched as the Galadhrim fired in vain on the advancing hoard on the stone bridge. Try as he might, he couldn't help but think of another battle, half a century earlier. A bloody battle, one in which he had lost so much that was precious to him. For a moment, he lost his focus, grief kicking him as if it was still brand new. But Aragorn's voice brought his attention back to the foot of the walls.

"The torch-bearer! Look to the torch-bearer!" The Man's voice was hoarse with something close to desperation. Breathing calmly, Legolas nocked an arrow to the string. His bow sang as the arrow took flight, straight and true. It punched through the weaker plate at the neck of the orc's armour. But the orc, though dying, was carried forward by his own speed. He pitched out of sight into a recess at the foot of the wall.

A huge explosion rent the air and the wall was torn asunder. The Deeping Wall, which even in the worst nightmares of the Rohirrim had remained unbreachable, was gone. Huge stones sailed into the air and a wall of water, freed from the lake behind, poured through the remains of the narrow culvert. Legolas looked in horror to see Aragorn, face down in the mud, motionless. He had been thrown from the wall into the courtyard behind.

"To the inner keep!" The voice of one of the Rohirrim commanders rang out. His voice was almost drowned out by the yells of the orcs forcing their way through the torrent of water and through the breach.

With an immense shout of "Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!", Legolas' dwarf companion leapt down into the gap, swinging his axe with deadly accuracy. He bought Aragorn precious moments to come to his sense. The man struggled to his feet, shaking his head as if to clear it from the ringing of the concussion. But Legolas could see Gimli about to be overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the orcs. Acting on sheer impulse, he ran for the top of the stairs, leaping onto a shield dropped by a fallen defender and balancing on it as he slid in a wild careening descent. As he swept down the steps, he loosed arrow after arrow, pausing only as Aragorn stretched out and pulled the dwarf to safety.

But one friend was saved only for Legolas to watch another fall before his eyes. High on the battlements, an Uruk thrust his weapon into Haldir's stomach. Aragorn set off back up the stairs at a rush, hoping against hope to save the Marchwarden. Legolas watched helpless as the Heir of Isildur arrived only in time to cradle their friend's head as he died. Aragorn rose to his feet.

"To the keep!" he yelled, taking up the earlier cry of the Rohir. "To the keep!"

Then Legolas was swept into the fight once more, drawing his knives to fight at close quarters. One, two, four, half a dozen orcs fell beneath the thrust and parry of his deadly blades. But then two came at him at once, and as he backed up to give himself space, he tripped over a spear which stretched from the hand of a dead warrior. He slid to the ground and the closer of the two orcs lunged forward, sword held high above Legolas' neck.

As the notched, cruelly curved blade descended, Legolas' eyes opened wide. To lose his immortal life thus, amidst the stench of battle between Orcs and Men, on the rain sleeked cold boulders far from the green canopy of his beloved Eryn Galen. He lifted his chin, defiant to the last, proud son of a King. What fear had he of death? He would go to the halls of waiting, perhaps to be reunited with... Then at the very last instant, the descent of the blade was halted by a thin Elven blade, cunningly wrought, its jewelled handle held by a slender hand. The knife's twin buried itself deep in the guts of the orc, who pitched over backwards with a grunt.

Legolas looked up to meet the gaze of the warrior who had saved his life. Cool, appraising green eyes beneath delicate arched brows met his startling blue ones. Skin like alabaster. He felt mesmerised by the sight. A woman... no, an Elleth. A strand of red hair from beneath a hood. Legolas' breath hitched. Memories flooded him. Memories of a lost love, green eyed and red haired. His lost love, hacked down on the battlefield before Erebor, defending the body of her fallen Dwarven lover, more than half a mortal man's lifespan earlier. Dragging the breath back into his lungs, he opened his mouth to speak.

But the figure above him spoke first. "Son of Thranduil," the maiden hissed. "Had I known whose neck lay beneath that blade, I would not have been so ready to intervene with my own. Live, bastard spawn of the Greenwood, but not with my blessing." And she turned and leapt from the hillock on which he lay, her lithe figure disappearing into the mists and smoke of battle.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Big shout outs to Moon Huntress, Sister of Battle, Guest, Nameless, Jinx and Bereth Dolgar for reviewing.

Moon Huntress, Guest, Bereth – yes she does hate Legolas (at the moment ;-D). There is a reason, but you'll have to wait to find out why.

Sister of Battle – glad you're liking the mystery element of it. I'm trying to build that up.

And thanks to all who've followed/favourited this already – I really can't believe it. Big thanks to OneInsomniaticHoosier, bakeral5, Legolas' Fried Potato (you have got to tell me the story behind that user name!), zuzzzu, CarlssonElyy and Bereth.

I'm writing away like crazy. Hope to have the next update up soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Eruanne's POV**

The battle was finally over. It had seemed for a while as if they would all perish in that dark stone fortress, turned from sanctuary to charnel house by the fire of Orthanc. But with the dawn came the White Wizard and the King's nephew leading the cavalry. And more mysterious still, a host of trees shepherded there by the Ents. The orcs that escaped the swords and spears of the horselords fled into the woods, never to be seen again.

Eruanne had used the confusion to slip away, and now sat on her vantage point on the cliffs high above the battlements. Her great spotted cat, grey speckles upon a pelt as white as snow, lay curled at her feet. Idly, she stroked the fur beneath its great jaw. Just like any domestic cat, it closed its eyes in bliss.

"You pretend to be fierce, but really you are as soft as butter, Naurwen," she whispered. The leopard blinked, and twitched the end of its tail languidly. Its pink tongue flicked out and licked its whiskers, giving a glimpse of sharp white fangs. Taking her hand away, Eruanne returned to her task of whetting her two knives.

_Two knives... The son of Thranduil had also carried two knives. Strange that he should be armed exactly as she. A strange balance in the universe, perhaps? Night to her day, dark to her light? One day her knives would meet his in the most ancient of dances. They would be well matched, and she would be revenged. _She gave her head a shake to clear it. What had her teacher said, too many scores of years ago to be counted? Live in the moment, dwell not in the past, nor look to the future. To take one's attention from the moment is to open a gap in one's armour through which the enemy's sword will surely find its mark.

And yet, and yet... She could not keep the memories at bay.

_**Flashback**_

Her sister lay in her arms, a broken thing, like a bird whose wing was shattered beyond repair. Fading, fading.

"Sing to me, Eruanne. Sing the lullabies our mother used to sing to us. Sing to me, my Cúnë Yávë," she whispered through dry, parched lips.

Eruanne smiled despite the tears. How much she'd hated that nickname when they were both children. The name Firiel had given her after she'd eaten so many of those strange fruits from the far Harad that she'd been sick. And yet now, instead of angering her, it caressed her with memories of a carefree childhood filled with light and laughter.

Her voice breaking with sorrow, she started to sing the lullaby their mother had sung to them as they slept side by side in soft sheets, covered by a quilt of finest down, a canopy of rose coloured chiffon above their bed.

"_Hush little hummingbird, rest on the branch_

_Tuck your head beneath your wing_

_Ada is here to keep you safe_

_Listen to your Naneth sing_

_Hush little hummingbird, go to sleep,_

_Naneth's here, her watch to keep"_

Eruanne's voice faltered. Her sister's eyes had closed, her breath coming in gentle, shallow movements – too gentle, too shallow. Knowing that her sister would not see her to be upset, Eruanne let the tears come.

_**The Present**_

"Live in the moment." In her mind, Eruanne heard her teacher's voice come to her. What now? Her sorrow hardened into anger. She would follow the son of Thranduil. Yes, that would be a fitting vengeance – to see the Elven King suffer as she had suffered. And the way to do that was through his son.

Her resolve made, she sheathed her knives and bent her head to whisper to Naurwen.

"Stand guard, my faithful one. Wake me when there is movement within the fortress. I want to follow them when they move out – the Dwarf, the tall, dark-haired Man and the accursed Elf from the Greenwood." The leopard regarded her steadily from its tawny eyes, its tail waving. Knowing that the cat would keep watch, Eruanne lay down on the ledge and stared up at the clouds, blending waking thought and dreams in the manner of Elves.

_**-x-**_

For the next few days she tracked the strangers. They followed the White Wizard and the King of the Horselords through the forest. From her vantage in the trees to the side of the track, she listened to the easy banter between the Dwarf and the Elf. How could he sound so carefree, she asked herself. She followed them to Orthanc and back. She watched as they took their leave of the King of the Horselords and his nephew.

All the time her attention focused above all on the blond Elf. She watched him laugh with his comrades, and hated him. She watched him show care towards others and saw only hypocrisy. She watched him simply walk or ride his horse, or at rest. She hated every fibre of his being, and yet... and yet. She could see the allure – high chiselled cheek bones, startling blue eyes, hair like spun mithril, white-gold beneath the midday sun. But the allure hid only the underlying cruelty, of this she was certain.

Eventually she followed them to Dunharrow where they met with more Elves - High Elves; and more men, tall and dark-haired like the man, Thranduillion's close companion, who had held the sword aloft on the battlements some nights earlier.

A tall, fair woman, a high lady among the Horse People, girt in mail and with a sword by her side, brought a farewell cup, and bade goodbye to the Elves and their hooded, fell-looking, dark-haired mortal companions. Eruanne watched as the woman's eyes lingered on the tall man. _You love him_, she thought, sudden recognition waking in her soul. _You love him, you fool. Flee, for love leads only to ruin and death._

The elleth followed the company up the winding narrow valley until it came to an end. The company marched through an avenue of standing stones, ancient stones, ancient even to one who was immortal. Then the tall dark man uttered a command, ancient stone door swung open. The company filed in, in single file, and the doors swung shut behind them, leaving Eruanne outside.

Laying her hands on the shoulders of Naurwen, she cursed her ill-fortune. Then she considered her next move. The Horselords had mustered and rode to war in distant Gondor. Surely destruction and ruin lay at the end of their journey. She smiled to herself. Destruction and ruin was her fate, she was sure of this. And if the fates smiled on her, her path would surely cross with that of the son of Thranduil, amid the destruction and ruin.

_**-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x**_

_**Shout-outs**_

Thanks to Sister of Battle, Jinx, Val Illicia, and Raider K for reviewing. Raider K – Thanks for your really nice reviews. It's great to know what I'm doing right and what isn't so good. Do you think the leopard doesn't work? I'd seen it in some other stories and it just seemed such a cool idea. Hopefully I can make it work (I have ideas for how it will fit into the plot).

Thanks to llcyyxx, sjt90, Claret Tho, Krayzee Aussie, Moronarty, CantStopSmilingAllDay, shophiescastle, , Wizard in the Blue Box, nephilimpotter, Zafrina and Aya Ayame for favouriting/following this story.

You're all great and I hope I can make the rest of the story live up to this start.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Oh wow – more reviews and lots of follows – I'm so glad you're interested in where this story's going. Yes, there will be romance, but there's also a bit of a mystery adventure tacked on too. Hopefully, it's more than just the story of the RotK. Shout-outs at the end.**

**Legolas' POV**

The group set up camp. They were still a day's journey from Dunharrow. Legolas stood at the edge of the encampment looking out over the plains of Rohan. Aragorn moved nearly silently to the Elf's shoulder

In the evening light the undulating grassland looked silvery grey to the ranger's eye: he wondered how it looked to the keener eyes of his companion. Did he still see the grass as green despite the failing light?

They stood in silence for a while, taking a quiet solace in one another's company. Eventually Legolas spoke.

"Do you feel as if we are being followed, _mellon nin_?"

" Yes, for some days now, in fact since the ride to Isengard. You sense a presence too?"

"Aye. What feel you of its intent?" Legolas' face was impassive. He did not want to influence Aragorn's answer, interested in what the man's gut feeling was.

"It does not feel to me to be malevolent. I sense no workings of the Enemy," the Ranger answered, in measured, thoughtful tones.

"For my part, I do not sense the workings either of the Dark Lord to the East or of Orthanc. Yet I feel the hairs on my neck rise. I do not think, whatever it is, that it is well disposed towards me." The Elf gave one of his characteristic faint smiles, little more than a tiny quirk of the corner of his lips. "Perhaps, though,"he continued, wryly, "It bears a grudge against me alone, and not the party as a whole, and that is why you sense no ill will."

Aragorn picked up on his companion's attempt to lighten the mood, and responded in kind. "Ah, mellon nin, what dark deeds from the centuries before my birth do you bear the guilt for, to have mysterious enemies tracking you across the plains of Rohan so far from the Greenwood?"

Legolas gave one of his rare laughs, a sound all the more beguiling, Aragorn thought, for the infrequency of its occurrence. "Naught I have done, I'll wager. I rarely antagonise people - barring the Dwarf, of course." Legolas' words were belied by an affectionate smile. But then the smile faded as remembered words echoed in his mind. _Bastard spawn of the Greenwood_. "But then again, who is to say it is something I have done? My father is not exactly renowned for his easy way with people."

"Look! West towards the mountains!"

Legolas followed the gesture Aragorn made. A flash of movement, disappearing into a faint hollow in the grassland. The briefest of glimpses of the tail of some lithe and graceful beast.

"A lynx," Aragorn said.

"Nay, a snow leopard," the Elf answered.

"This far below the snow line?" the man responded. Seeing his companion raise a sardonic eyebrow, he quickly continued. "But no, I defer to your superior sight." He paused for a moment. "I wonder..."

"You wonder what?"

"No, 'tis nothing of any import. Just an old campaigner's tale from my days serving the old Steward, Ecthelion." He gave his head a shake as if to shed some fey mood. "Come, let's see if Master Gimli has left any of the stew for us."

_**-x-**_

Legolas sensed that the mystery follower still dogged their heels over the next few days. But even his keen azure eyes could not make out any trace, barring the glimpse of the leopard which he sensed was in some way connected with whoever was tracking them. No trace, that was, until the very last moment.

The group of Rangers of the North and Elves, plus Gimli, had ridden up the narrow, forbidding valley. Grey slopes of scree ran steeply down the valley sides. Meagre grass clung in patches to the slopes, and a thin turf covered the floor of the valley. Finally they reached their destination, the dreaded Paths of the Dead. Steeling themselves, the party made their way into the narrow tunnel that led under the mountains. Beneath the shadow of the Dwimorberg, as the gate to the Paths swung shut behind him, Legolas cast one last glance over his shoulder at the world of light and sky he was leaving behind. And there, in the shade of one of the standing stones that had lined the road up the Harrowdale, just for one fleeting instant he saw the figure of a lithe, shapely feminine figure, her red hair blazing in the evening sun, emerald eyes glinting as she surveyed his retreating figure.

**Eruanne's POV**

It was several days since Eruanne had watched the horselords disappear into the hillside. She now followed the Horselords and their troops through the wilds of Anorien. In the evenings she watched their camp fires from a distance. Naurwen lay beside her, the leopard's head resting on the Elf's lap. Eruanne looked into the cat's tawny eyes. She sensed the accusatory feeling at the back of the animal's mind. She ruffled her fur and spoke in a low voice.

"You are right, as always. I must not let my hatred for the Prince of Mirkwood distract me from our real task. We need to find our way to the library of the lore masters in Minas Tirith – and Minas Tirith is under siege. Thus our best hope is to follow these troops and pray to the Valar that they manage to lift the siege."

Eruanne sat in silence and contemplated the task before her.

The ancient tales of Eruanne's people told of a woodland realm, Amrûn Galen, further to the East. For millenia, they had lived there peacefully. But then a dark shadow had fallen over their land. The Black Easterling, Khamûl, one of the nine mortal men enslaved by the nameless one, came to their land and laid waste to it. Eventually, his lord and master summoned Khamûl to his stronghold, Dol Guldur. But Khamûl left his daughter, the evil sorceress Elohtolpa, to rule over his slaves, the Dark Elves of Amrûn Galen. Half an age of Arda ago, they could take her cruelty no longer. They fled their ancestral lands. Eruanne had been a young elf as she followed her mother through the winter snows, skirting through the wild lands to the north of the Ered Lithui. The trek had taken half a year, through frozen wastes and across the dread ancient battlefield of the Dead Marshes, where green lights flickered above pools filled with the wights of ancient battle dead. At last, they reached sanctuary on the northern slopes of the Ephel Duath.

At that time, before the return of the shadow, those mountains were bleak and threatening, but not yet filled with evil as they were later to become. In her mind's eye, she could see the slopes of North Ithilien. For many lifetimes of men, she and her people had lived there, for the most part in peace. But then the Necromancer returned from his stronghold in Mirkwood to his age-old fastness of Barad Dur. In these more recent years, bands of orcs had laid waste to the verdant groves of her people. They now eked out a tenuous existence amid the sick and dying trees.

When her sister finally made her way back to their community, as frail as the trees among which they lived, Eruanne had sworn a solemn vow. She would find the stone of power which alone could overthrow the sorceress Elohtolpa. The clues to its whereabouts were to be found in the ancient scrolls dating from the time of the Steward of Gondor many centuries earlier, Narmacil. And the scrolls were inside Minas Tirith, which was surrounded by the hosts of Mordor.

**Thanks for the lovely reviews...**

Bereth – glad you liked the lullaby. I thought it was nice to remember the two of them as children, so we got to see Eruanne's softer side, because mostly we'd seen her being cross with Legolas.

Sister of Battle – you're on the right track, but it'll turn out to be quite complicated.

Raider K – I hope you don't mind another "filler" chapter, but I need to establish some of the backstory for the sake of the plot. But there will be another encounter between Eruanne and Legolas in the next chapter, promise!

Jinx – good point about "it", my bad! Glad you like Naurwen.

Big thanks to Shimmering Water17, PureLuck7, Latignacienne, kellyhorse and LSUtiger10, lolvampirebookworm2000 for following/favouriting. If you have any comments, please leave a review – it's great to know how I'm doing. Of course it's great to hear what you like, but it really helps me if you tell me (nicely) the stuff you feel isn't working.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**Eruanne's POV**

Eruanne had tracked the Rohirrim throughout their journey. She could not help but notice the slighter rider among the tall, broad-shouldered men of Rohan. The rider's features remained hidden, either beneath a helm, or the hood of a cloak, but the Elf could not help but notice the eyes. Haunted eyes, glittering blue grey, full of pain and loss. So like the eyes of her sister, haunted by the pain of lost love. And like her sister, this rider sought only death. _Do not give up the fight,_ Eruanne's mind whispered, urging the rider to find hope. She had watched her sister fade day after day. She would not wish that fate upon another being, whether Elf or Mortal. _Live, live for those who do love you._ But she watched as the rider moved into the long line of cavalry, and knew that the doom the rider faced was beyond her power to change.

With a great roaring cry the horsemen surged forward. Eruanne's breath caught for a moment as she stood in stunned silence at the sight. Then on fleet Elven feet, she started to run across the battlefield towards the distant walls of Minas Tirith. In the portion of the battlefield she was crossing, most of the orcs and men in league with Mordor had been slain by the wave of cavalry. But Eruanne's bow sang with arrows as she picked off the few remaining enemies who posed a threat to her. By her side, Naurwen took bounding strides, teeth bared and ready to deal with any threat to her mistress.

Suddenly dread fingers of fear clutched at Eruanne like some sort of black, enveloping tidal wave. She looked up for a moment, and shrank back against the ground. Over her head, one of the fell beasts of the air circled. Too well she knew the hideous fear they brought. Khamûl, one of the nine, had held sway over the lands of her birth. She had thought that there was nothing about their cruelty she did not know. Yet in the presence of the dark shadow sweeping over her, she sensed a strength and cruelty and power beyond that even of Khamûl. Dread tales had reached her people of the lord who ruled over Khamûl, the witch king from the far north, from Angmar.

She reached out blindly to bury her fingers in Naurwen's fur, seeking comfort. Beneath her hand, she could feel all the hair on Naurwen's neck standing straight up. A quick glance confirmed that the giant cat felt the fell presence as keenly as she did. But then, like the sun coming out after a storm, the shadow passed, moving further over the battlefield to where the horselords were engaged in the front line of the fight. From a distance she saw their King's horse hacked down, and their King fall beneath the huge charger, pinned to the ground by his own mount. The fell beast circled lower and lower, then came to rest near by, slicing the dying horse's belly with its claw.

Eruanne started to run. But there was no hope of her getting there in time. Her keen Elven sight saw that the King was not alone. A slim figure intervened, standing between the cloaked rider and his prey. Eruanne realised with a start that it was the sorrowful young figure she had picked out of the line of horsemen earlier. She watched as the black cloaked wraith taunted the figure, then looked in amazement as the slender knight cast aside cloak and helm to reveal tumbling blonde hair. The woman who had looked so filled with sadness at Harrowdale was now standing over the body of her fallen kinsman, defending him to the last. The witch king shattered her shield with a blow of his mace, and Eruanne thought that the woman must surely be slain. But then suddenly the wraith stumbled and the woman was able to drive her sword into the shadowy mist between breast plate and crown. The cloak crumpled to the ground. Then, with a faint cry, the woman herself fell and slid to lie, motionless, at the scene of the fight.

Eruanne didn't know what had come over her. Earlier, she had seen in the mortal maiden some echo of her lost sister. Something about the girl's sadness had touched her. She could not leave her alone, her body to be despoiled by orcs. But what of her quest? The safety of her whole people rested on her; she could not abandon them on a sentimental whim. On the spur of the moment she reached a decision.

"Naurwen, run. Do not let yourself be seen, but guard the body of the lady of the horse people until her own folk can take her to safety, whether to live or to be laid to rest." She ran her hand over the leopard's pelt, feeling the beast's shoulders and haunches tense. Then, like an arrow from a bow, the cat sped off to do her bidding.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Time stretched out as Eruanne fought her way through the chaos of the battlefield. She picked her way through corpses from both sides, occasionally having to skirt round pockets of fighting. She was not a coward, but her aim was not to fight, but simply to reach the city and the information within it. Finally, she got with half a mile or so of the shattered gates.

Eruanne slung her bow across her back, seeing (as she thought) a clear path towards the citadel. But behind her she heard a noise, the snapping of the shaft of a spear. She spun to find not one but two Southrons advancing on her, their armour glistening, gold bands round their necks and arms, red cloaks tattered and torn by the day's horrors. The nearer of the two was tall, his profile like a bird of prey, a livid scar upon his cheek. The second, moving to the side to outflank her, was smaller but muscular. Both carried the cruel curved swords of the Haradrim and round shields with a vicious spike in the centre of each.

With a fluid grace she reached behind her back. Her daggers gave a shimmering, singing noise as she drew them smoothly from their sheaths. The Southrons continued their path trying to get one either side of her. But Eruanne knew from long experience that the weakness of two men trying to attack one lay in the lack of coordination they could bring to bear. Feinting slightly to her left, she drew in one of her attackers, only to dance out of his reach, pirouette on one foot and swirl round, bringing her dagger across the throat of the other. As he pitched forward, she lunged forward in a smooth continuation of her earlier movement, thrusting the second dagger into the heart of the other attacker.

She started to run towards the city walls, but suddenly in her peripheral vision she saw a huge grey shape. Turning, she saw a huge mumak, eyes wide, red mouth gaping, lurching towards her. On its back she caught sight of a familiar blond figure, bow drawn, firing arrows into the monstrous beast's neck. The distraction was almost her undoing. As the mumak crashed to the ground, a huge uruk brought his battle axe crashing down towards her unguarded flank. Dodging at the last minute, she found herself unbalanced, at the creature's mercy. As the uruk loomed over her, she felt rather than heard a rush of air by her ear. A pale dagger flew past and embedded itself between the uruk's eyes. Without so much as a sound, it crumpled to the ground at her feet.

"And thus my debt is paid, and we are all square, my mysterious lady of the daggers," said a cool voice from behind her. She whirled to find herself face-to-face with the son of Thranduil.

To her fury, he raised an eyebrow and looked at her appraisingly. "We seem fated to meet, my lady. Anyone would think you were seeking me out. Or perhaps that was another leopard I saw on the road to Dunharrow?" She could have sworn that she saw the corner of his mouth threatening to quirk into a sardonic smile. But then a black-feathered arrow sped between them, missing him by a hairsbreadth.

"Perhaps you should worry less about my movements and more about the enemy," Eruanne hissed through clenched teeth, readying her own daggers.

With seeming casual ease, her unwanted companion plucked an arrow from behind him, strung it to his bow and fired. The arrow took out both the orc who had shot at them, and the orc behind.

"It seems we have company," he said, laconically. "A lot of company. Would you care to wager which of us will kill the most?"

Then the horde of orcs swept towards them, and Eruanne found herself fighting back-to-back with the Elf she despised, in a desperate, unwanted contest driven more by the desire to stay alive than the desire to win.

**Shout-outs**

Thanks to Val Illicia, Dancer Girl, Allana Stone and Bereth Dolgar for your reviews. Val Illicia – thanks for your kind words about the names. I've been using an on-line Elvish name generator to try to make them convincing. And one of my friends who's mad keen on LOTR too has been helping me out with the back story. We were looking to see if we could find the names of any of the Nine, and we found a wiki article – so Khamûl and Narmacil are actually Tolkien's own characters.

Thanks to to Allana Stone, mesugarbee, Solitary Peak, The Paranoid Grave Robber and Venessa for following/favouriting.

And please let me know what you think... the review button's just down there.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**Legolas' POV**

She was an impressive fighter, he would concede that much. Legolas had run out of arrows and was now fighting with his twin daggers, slicing his way through the orcs. Every so often, he took sidelong glances at the Elleth by his side. Her moves were economical yet graceful, and utterly deadly. As she swirled and dodged, her hair streamed out like a banner of flame. Legolas nearly got caught by the pike wielded by yet another of the black horde. He mentally pulled himself up – he was allowing himself to get distracted. But who wouldn't get distracted, he thought? The way she moved, the way her armour somehow did nothing to hide her feminine curves. But her attitude! She clearly hated him for some imagined wrong.

Legolas gave a smile in spite of the gravity of the situation. Well, he had always liked a challenge. He looked fleetingly over his shoulder.

"Seven," he said, with a certain smugness.

"Eight," she responded, before kicking her leg high to catch a tall orc beneath the chin. As he tumbled, she stabbed him up under the ribs. "Nine."

"Not bad," Legolas admitted. He crossed his wrists, then swiftly uncrossing his arms, sliced cleanly with his daggers and took off the head of one of the goblins. _A move I learned at my father's knee_, he thought. Then he vaulted over the carcass of a mumak, before landing with a cat-like grace and delivering a killer blow to another orc. "And now we are even," he said, triumphantly.

"Not quite," she said. She stepped on the blade of a sword, letting its hilt catapult up and into her open hand. In a single fluid motion, she swept it up and behind her, slicing the last of the orcs who had been trying to creep up on her.

"That would appear to be the last of them. Which, if I have counted correctly, gives me the victory." She gave an almost feral smile. "And now, if you will excuse me, I have business elsewhere." She set off at a run towards the city, leaping over obstacles. Legolas watched her figure disappear into the distance. She might hate him, but what a spirit. Her grace and bravery was captivating. In all the years since he first walked the green glades of Arda, he had never felt himself drawn to another in this way. His reverie was interrupted by a familiar gruff voice.

"What's got into you, laddie? Looking all dreamy on a battlefield?" Legolas turned to see Gimli.

"Thirty five, master Elf," the dwarf announced with a grin.

Legolas rapidly added his latest kills to the total. "Forty three, master Dwarf."

"Aye, but the mumak only counts as one, no matter how fancy the footwork!"

"Only counts as one! Why, you miserly son of stone!"

Gimli cast an arm round his outraged friend's shoulder. "C'mon laddie, there's still work to be done nearer to the city gates."

**Eruanne's POV**

Eruanne sat high on one of the few unbroken sections of the outer wall. The outermost circle of the city was utter chaos. The few buildings not destroyed by the enemy's catapults were on fire. Amid the heaps of rubble and tumble masonry, dark spires of acrid smoke rose into the air. Small groups of men moved round the ruins like ants. They sought out the wounded and took them to safety, taking their fallen comrades and lying them gently on the ground until graves could be dug. The corpses of their enemies the dragged out through the shattered remains of the gate to be piled into vast pyres out on the plains.

Naurwen had watched over the fallen Rider until her comrades had carried her back into the city. Fearing that a leopard would draw unwanted attention to her, Eruanne had sent her cat to hid in the woods down near the banks of Anduin. She now sat alone on the stones, wondering how best to put her plan into action. She needed some way of making her way up to the higher circles of the city without attracting attention. Some way of blending into the crowd. In any case, now was not the right time: it would take a day or so before the city started to try to piece together a more normal life, then she could make her way to the city archives.

She drew some lembas from her pack and started to nibble the corner of it. Down on the plain, she could see a group of the people of the Horse Lords. They were singing a song to the memory of their fallen comrades. Their voices caught on the wind and floated over to where the Elf sat. There was an earthiness about mortal song, a connectedness with the world, the seasons, the cycle of life and death which Elvish melodies lacked.

She listened. The melody was carried hauntingly by tenor voices, with lower voices filling in the music, creating a wild, plaintive harmony. Somehow it suited the people of the plains. She could imagine them following their herds of horses. Her keen Elven sight could make out the faces of the singers, their blond hair gleaming in the evening light, their faces sad but somehow beautiful. She took a breath. Suddenly another face beneath blond hair had pushed its way before her mind's eye. More beautiful by far than the mortal faces below her, she felt something deep inside her stir at the memory of his grace, the deadly precision of his knives. The way he casually stared death in the face, even laughed at it, taunted it, joking with a nonchalant coolness in the middle of the battlefield. That quirked eyebrow as he challenged her to best him in battle, the wry smile when he realised she had succeeded.

She let out a hiss of breath, and realised her hand had clenched into a fist, nails digging into her palm. She did not find him attractive, would not find him attractive. He was the son of Thranduil. And yet, and yet... had not her sister found Thranduil attractive, and hated herself for doing so?

**Flashback**

Firiel lay in her sister's arms. Gently, Eruanne stroked her hair back from her face. She raised the goblet of water to her parched lips. Firiel took a tiny sip, almost choking on it, then spoke in a cracked voice.

"He said I would come to love him. And I did. And for that, I can never forgive myself."

**So, what happened between Firiel and Thranduil? Next chapter...**

Massive thanks for all the fantastic reviews: shout outs to Allanna Stone, Bereth, Sister of Battle, Overlordred, Jinx and Val Illicia.

Overlordred – Really glad you clicked and you're enjoying it. Sorry if chapter 3 was a bit confusing, I'm still getting the hang of writing. Eruanne was watching Eowyn as she in turn watched Aragorn – and Eruanne recognised the same look of unrequited love she'd seen on her sister's face. Glad you like Naurwen. She'll play more of a part later.

Sister, Bereth and Val – glad you find the battle scenes exciting. I tried to make them like the films.

Sister... well, it's not going to happen right away. ;-) There's gotta be a bit of a build up, I mean, that's where the fun is, isn't it?

And thanks to all the people who've added this to their follows/favourites: Bara06hime, Hahahanna, BeautifulCataleya, Overlordred, Annoyed Valeria, Stialyna, Shining brights as the stars, Sweets1111, turn2stone.

**And please people – review! I love reviews! Thanks!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**Flashback**

**The Eastern Realm of the Dark Elves, 600 years ago**

The emissary from Mirkwood bowed deeply, but Eruanne's mother, the Queen, was under no illusions. He came with soft words, backed by an army large enough to lay waste to their city.

"My King fears the rise in power of the Mortal Kingdom of the Wainriders," the Sylvan Elf said.

"As do we all," Queen Daeris replied.

"But do you?" asked the emissary. "That is the question which has been exercising the mind of my King, Thranduil. He sees the lands you hold sway over, their proximity to those of the Easterling mortals, the relative sizes of your armies. He wonders, were it to come to a choice between loyalty to your own kind, or to the neighbouring kingdom with its military might, which choice you would make. For make no mistake: Khumal and his daughter wish to conquer the lands to the west: Anorien first, then north to Rhovannion. They will wage war on the eastern flank of Eryn Galen."

Daeris inclined her head the tiniest amount. She would not defer to this Sylvan elf, who came laying accusations of disloyalty at her feet. "Why would you think so little of us to think that we might throw in our lot with mortals? Avari we may be, but nonetheless we are of the firstborn."

"Alas, if only we could be so confident of your loyalty. Of course, shared heritage should count for most, but you have the wolf living on your doorstep. Who is not to say that you may not be tempted to throw him a bone to appease him? No, King Thranduil demands sureties."

"And what form does Thranduil suggest these sureties take?"

"The traditional form of an exchange of hostages: one of his kin for one of yours: your oldest daughter."

Daeris stared imperiously at the emissary. "Some unspecified, distant kinsman for the flesh of my flesh, the daughter whom I carried for twelve moons, birthed in torment, loved more dearly than myself. What kin does Thranduil offer to compensate for so grievous a loss?"

"The cousin of a cousin of his late wife. But it is of no import, merely a courtesy to sweeten the pill. You have no choice but to agree. You have seen the size of the armed guard which accompanies me."

"You call it just an armed guard? I would rather call it an army. But I would consult with my advisers in private before coming to a decision regarding your offer." With a wave of her hand, she dismissed the emissary. He might hold the real power, but protocol demanded a pretence of deference on his part.

As soon as the Mirkwood elves had left, Eruanne flew across the room and sank to her knees, clasping her mother's hands.

"Naneth, you cannot do this to Firiel. Thranduil is known by reputation to be harsh, cruel, unyielding..."

Before her mother could answer, Firiel stepped up behind her sister and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Nay, Eruanne, my dearest one, my little Cúnë Yávë. Can you not see that we have no choice? This is the only way I can secure the safety of our people."

**Firiel's POV**

As she had for every day of the last six months, Firiel sat at one end of the dining table, watching Thranduil at the other. How beautiful he was, with his high cheekbones and blond hair, and yet how hard, unyielding. The hall around him seemed to reflect his personality. High, graceful columns bending into tracery overhead, like the branches of a tree. But made of cold, unfeeling marble. The table was of polished rosewood which reflected the light from the candelabras. Both table and chairs were elegant, slender pieces of wood inlaid with marquetry of precious hardwoods. To one side was what had looked at first glance to be another lower side table, but actually turned out to be mounted elaborately onto delicate wheels so that the servants could wheel it into the room. It was piled with all sorts of delicacies, delicacies for which Firiel found she had no appetite.

Firiel hated this pretence of courtly civility. Thranduil raised his goblet and offered her a silent toast. His eyes were so cold, that white face with its beautiful perfection so frozen, so devoid of all warmth and feeling. Did he have feelings, she wondered. Tired of the game, she rose from the table and walked towards the door, pausing beside the low side table laid with its trays of delicious but unwanted morsels.

"If you will excuse me, my lord, the hour is late, and I would go to my rest if it pleases you," she said.

Thranduil rose to his feet and walked towards her with his usual collected, graceful movements.

"And deprive myself of your company, my fair companion?" he replied, stopping but a few of hand spans from her.

Firiel felt anger flare hot within her. "Sir, you know as well as I that I am only here under duress. Why must we play out this charade of decorum every night?"

The corners of Thranduil's mouth rose in a smile, dangerous yet somehow arresting at the same time. He took half a step closer. "Are you suggesting that you would rather I abandoned this show of decorum? I could easily do so. So easily." He reached past her, almost brushing her silk-clad waist with his hand. Firiel's breath hitched, whether with alarm or some other tension, she knew not. The Elven King plucked a cherry from the bowl behind her, and brought his hand half way back towards his mouth, pausing with his fingers level with her cheek.

He moved a fraction closer, his leg brushing her skirt. "To abandon decorum..." he whispered. She could feel his breath against her skin. "So tempting..." He moved a fraction closer, and Firiel shrank back, her legs bumping against the wood behind her. She felt herself bend backwards over the table, placing her hands behind her in an effort to keep her balance. It shifted slightly on its wheels, and she panicked that it might move, pitching her onto the floor. Breathless with tension, she felt her chest heave as if she had run some distance.

Thranduil moved a hairsbreadth from her. She could feel the heat of his gaze on the neckline of her dress, and felt very exposed. His eyes narrowed, and his fingers moved closer to her face. With slow deliberation he brushed the cherry slowly along the line of her jaw then up the soft skin of her cheek. She tried to turn her head away, but his other hand came up and cupped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"So very, very tempting." His voice was husky. "But I do not take by plundering what is not willingly offered. I prefer to be begged..." He lifted the cherry towards his own lips which parted slightly. Firiel swallowed as she saw the tip of his tongue dart out and touch his lower lips. His gaze hooded, he moved his lips forward until they almost touched the sensitive tip of her ear. She felt as if her inner being was melting beneath this onslaught. "And believe me... you will beg."

He drew back slightly, then with his long, elegant fingers, finally placed the cherry between those alluring lips. He took a further step back, then sketched the most ironic of bows.

"Until tomorrow evening, my lady Firiel." His tall, commanding form turned away from her, and he swept from the room. Left alone, Firiel slumped against the wooden surface behind her. There could be no doubt that the Elven King meant to lay siege to her virtue. And even more worrying, that the biggest threat to her virtue was in fact she herself.

**Shout-outs. Thanks for all my lovely reviews.**

BAFemale Fighter: Fear not – Legolas is not going to turn out to be her nephew. That would be really squicky.

Caitydubbleyew: That's really interesting about lembas, I didn't know that. I guess my Eastern elves must have learned how to make it from wandering high elves.

Val Illicia – yes, I think you're on the right track ;-) But no spoilers!

Bereth – Glad you liked the Rohirrim singing.

Overlordred – yes, I like cocky Legolas too. He's annoying and cute at the same time. Maybe Eruanne will take him down a peg or two... just wait and see.

Sister of Battle – glad you like the battle scenes (goes with your name!)

De Lacus – Glad you're finding it intriguing. I want a bit of mystery in the story, not just a random OC who falls for Legolas and that's all there is to the story.

Allanna – thanks. Working hard at updating regularly :-)

And thanks to everyone who's followed/favourited: missmatchedsocks12, rotten daydreams, caitydubbleyew, Boo Dude, Kersteen, and DeLacus.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

**Eruanne's POV**

Several days had passed since the siege was lifted. The dead had been buried, the fires in the outer circle quenched, the main thoroughfares cleared. The city was under martial law in an attempt to keep order and see that the meagre food supplies lasted. This meant it was quite hard to move freely round the city without seeming like a native who had some business in a given quarter. And a tall, graceful Elleth was not exactly likely to pass for a native, not without some disguise.

It took some time for Eruanne to come up with an idea. When she did, it gave her no small degree of amusement to realise how she could blend in with the crowds in the outer circles of the city despite her lustrous red locks. Most of the women of Gondor had dark hair, evidence of their Numenorean ancestry. Most but not all. The courtesans of the pleasure houses of the third circle dyed their hair with henna, the better to advertise their profession.

A surreptitious entry to one of these houses via an unlocked roof light during the late morning when its inhabitants were sleeping off the previous night's labours and before business started for the day furnished Eruanne with what she needed. In the burnt out ruin she had chosen for her hiding place, she tried on the diaphanous gown and teetering shoes . The latter in particular seemed to her to be the most ridiculous things she had ever encountered, but she had to look the part, and all the city's courtesans wore them so that their extra height drew the eyes of would be patrons. The outfit was completed with the addition of a flimsy cloak.

She added the final touches. She undid her warrior braids and shook out her hair so that it covered her ears. Then she applied lines of kohl round her eyes and a smear of the bright red paste the courtesans favoured to her lips. She slipped from the ruins and mingled with the throng in the street, heading up towards the Citadel, confident that she had not been noticed by anyone. But her confidence was misplaced.

**Legolas' POV**

Ever since she bested him on the battlefield, Legolas had been unable to get the image of the graceful yet deadly Elleth out of his mind. He had spent much of his spare time wondering how he might be able to encounter her again. He could not understand his thought processes: she showed every sign of hating him, yet he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Then, in the distance, through the crowds, he caught sight of her. She had her back to him, but there was something about her movements: he knew he had found her.

He moved swiftly through the crowds, eventually getting close enough to see her face and figure properly. Stunned, he almost collided with a passer-by. Her hair cascaded freely over her shoulders, she was clad as a mortal woman... a mortal woman of dubious virtue. Legolas swallowed hard. Although the dress covered her, somehow it clung to every curve and left nothing to the imagination. Then he caught sight of her huge eyes, rimmed with dark kohl, making them look even bigger, and her lips, so red and tempting. His breath hitched. Then his lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. A moment of self-realisation hit him. He could no longer claim not to understand his thought processes: he now knew exactly why he was so drawn to her.

Keeping at a distance of four or five people behind her, Legolas started to follow her up the hill. He watched with amusement as more than one man tried to approach her. Mostly she dealt with them with a few well-chosen words, but one was rather more persistent. Legolas saw a sudden flash of steel beneath the gauzy cloak she wore. The man took several steps backwards, then took to his heels and almost sprinted down the street. Whatever his lady of the daggers was up to, she was certainly not touting for business. He gave a quiet laugh. On the one hand, given her hair colour, her choice of disguise was a brilliant one. On the other... well, a woman as beautiful as her was always going to attract a lot of attention, and to be both beautiful and to publicly declare oneself available... She was hardly going to pass through the streets unnoticed.

Then the full genius of her disguise hit him. He remembered a favourite phrase of Aragorn's from his days as a Ranger of the North: hiding in plain sight. Her appearance was so stunning that it drove all other thoughts out of mens' minds. There was simply no space for them to harbour suspicions as to what she was up to. Their minds were entirely concentrated on her charms.

Eventually, to his surprise, they made their way as high as the fifth circle. He had to be careful here. The crowds had thinned out, and he had to drop right back and risk losing her at each corner so as not to be seen. But by the same token, his quarry now became even more noticeable. Few of her supposed trade made it this far into the city, and he kept expecting her to be challenged by a member of the City Guard. Fortunately for whatever mission drew her here, there were presumably far more pressing matters for the Guard to be concerned with in these dark days.

Finally she reached her destination, and Legolas' brows drew together in a furrow of puzzlement. She disappeared into the Houses of the Honourable Guild of Archivists. Legolas found himself left cooling his heels on the steps nearby. She was gone for nigh on two hours. Eventually he caught sight of her emerging from a side door, in the company of a young man in the robes of the Guild. Reaching up with one elegant hand, she ran her fingers tantalisingly across the mortal's cheek. Legolas found his hand reaching for one of his daggers. She leant forward and whispered something to the mortal, who passed her a roll of parchment. She wrapped it in the flimsy fabric of her cloak, brushed her fingers to her crimson lips and blew the man a kiss before turning on heel and disappearing down the street.

Legolas felt his gut clench with an emotion which was totally new to him. He wanted to kill the man. He wasn't sure whether or not he wanted to kill her, too. He knew that he burned with the desire to know how much more than a gentle stroke on the cheek had been required to gain the parchment. At the same time, he felt as if he desperately did not want to know. He felt his jaw muscles clench, then made a conscious effort to pull himself together and follow her once more. Whatever she had done to acquire the parchment, the man had been used purely as a means to an end... and he wanted to find out what that end was.

Once she was safely a couple of streets away, she ducked into a deserted lane between high stone buildings. From a shadowy doorway some tens of paces behind her, he watched as she unfurled the parchment. Even from this distance, Legolas could make out the pattern on the parchment. It was a map. Abruptly, she released the corners of the parchment and let it spring back into a tight roll. She tucked it once more into her cloak, and started to head off – uphill once more, deeper into the ancient fastness of the Citadel at the centre of Minas Tirith.

**Shout outs: Thanks for all the reviews, guys.**

Bad Ass Female Fighter. "Squicky" - just creepy and wrong, I guess.

Sister of Battle, Overlordred, Bereth – yeah, he's not a nice guy in this fic (sorry, Thranduil fans). But he is still really really yummy.

Allana – thanks!

Stialyna – yes, sorry, evil cliffie. There's going to be more too – it's an adventure story as well as a romance, so I want to try to make it really exciting. But I promise to try to update regularly, so you won't be left hanging too long.

Vampress – thanks! And here's an update, hope I didn't leave you waiting too long.

Val Illicia – I've got something up my sleeve on that front – wait and see.

And thanks to everyone who's followed/favourited: Bad Ass Female Fighter, Vampress Princess of the Night, LovelyThorn and team. .

More soon!


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

**Eruanne's POV**

Eruanne moved steadily up through the city. The streets round the Houses of the Guild of Archivists were already not as busy as those lower in the city. And the higher the elf moved, the quieter things got. She found the narrow streets replaced by broad avenues which left her feeling exposed. On top of this, the nearly transparent fabrics which had seemed such a good distraction lower down in the outer circles now seemed like a beacon drawing the attention of the handful of passers by to her.

Worse still, she could not shake off the feeling that she was being followed. Yet each time she turned to look behind her, she saw no one, not so much as a flicker of movement in her peripheral vision. How she wished that Naurwen could be here to watch her back. But there was no way that the cat could possibly blend in to the background in Minas Tirith. _Focus... must focus_. She forced herself to concentrate, recalling the lines of the map she had got from the archivist. Her brow wrinkled with distaste at the thought of the promises she had had to make to the young man, the memory of his clammy hands pawing at her as she mouthed "later, darling, later." There was no way there was going to be a later. But as the flimsy silk shimmered in the breeze, caressing the smooth skin of her leg, she wondered what it would be like to have that effect on someone she actually desired. Unbidden, an image of blonde hair and broad archer's shoulders came to her mind's eye. _By the Valar... Focus, focus._

Glancing to her left, she recognised one of the landmarks from the map. A temple to Manwe, with doors of brass and a high marble colonnade. And there, to the side of the building, was a narrow passage. She hastened down it, drawing her cloak about her. Yes... here at last was the entrance. A tiny wooden door beneath an ancient archway, carvings half crumbled with age. She could just make out the coiled dragon and gryphon supporting the door posts, with eagles taking flight across the span of the arch. Reaching down the front of her dress, she pulled out a heavy metal key on a chain which nestled between her breasts. She slid it into the keyhole in the wood, darkened by the passing centuries. The tarnished metal of the handle turned reluctantly beneath her grasp and the door creaked open.

She slipped into the darkness within and hastened down the passageway. To mortal eyes, the surroundings would have been too dark to find one's way. But Eruanne's keen Elven eyes allowed her to make her way, sure footed as Naurwen, down the uneven flagstones and the steep spiral flight of steps at the end. Down, down, deep beneath the temple she went. The ceiling was low in places and she had to stoop, brushing aside the spiders' webs which festooned the masonry above her head. Eventually she came to an elaborately wrought metal gate, work of some ancient craftsman who had modelled his work on sketches of the mallorns of the Golden Wood. The metalwork twined like tree branches, set with filigree leaves. Eruanne drew the gate open and stepped into the high-vaulted, echoing crypt beyond.

Making her way to the centre of the space, she paused before a brazier of cast metalwork. Though heaped with logs, it was thick with the grey dust of disuse. Eruanne reached down to her waist, where her gown was cinched in by a slender silver girdle, and opened the purse that rested against her hip. From inside, she drew out a tiny wooden box which she opened. Murmuring an incantation in a low voice, she scattered a dark crimson powder over the wood. Instantly the wood caught flame.

Unrolling the parchment, Eruanne carefully paced out from the brazier – thirteen steps towards the far end of the chamber, five to the left, which took her to one of the pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling. Carefully, she ran her fingers up the stonework from the base of the column, counting the stones, until reaching high above her head, she pressed the carved mouldings just to its left. With a grating sound, the stone slid away to reveal a hidden compartment. She reached inside and drew out a polished box bound with bands of metal which gleamed dully in the light from the fire.

**Legolas' POV**

From the shadows to the side of the wrought metalwork of the gate, Legolas watched the red-haired Elleth. Her gown clung to her as she stretched up, and he found himself admiring the way long, slim outline of her legs was accentuated by the high heels she wore. He tried to tell himself he was merely amused by the sight of one of his own race dressed as a mortal woman of easy virtue, but the sudden dryness of his mouth suggested otherwise. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way the fabric of her gown clung to every curve of her body. What would it be like to hold that body, to pull it flush against his own, to explore those curves? Legolas bit his lip, giving his head a shake as if to clear his mind of the distracting images which filled his imagination with fire.

He saw her take a small wooden box from the hidden compartment, and a small parcel wrapped in cloth. What was it? She made her way back to the brazier, her every step elegant and poised. Like a dancer, she seemed to float as if clear of the stone flags beneath her feet. With a smooth, elegant movement, she sank to her knees. Adding more logs from the small pile beside the brazier, she banked up the fire, then opened the box. From it she took a long, cruelly fashioned knife. Then she unwrapped the cloth to reveal a gauntlet. In the glimmering red light of the fire it was hard to be sure of colours, but Legolas thought it was the turquoise scales characteristic of dragonhide from the worms of the northern ranges beyond his homeland. Resistant to any sort of heat. She donned the glove, the picked up the knife and thrust it into the flames, holding it there for a matter of minutes. When she withdrew it, the blade shone, revealing fiery letters written in Tengwar.

Silently, he stepped from the shadows and came up behind her, seeking to read what was written there.

"My lady of the daggers, well met once more." She leapt to her feet and whirled instantly, thrusting towards him on instinct with the dagger, but Legolas caught her by the wrist, the dragon scales of the gauntlet rough beneath his fingers. He continued smoothly, "I find it very curious... we meet on a battlefield, and you save my life, only to curse me. We fight side by side, and you best my score by one, only to run off towards a city under siege. And now I find you engaged on some stealthy errand, and no longer in.." Legolas paused, then raised one eyebrow and gave a half smile, "No longer in warrior's attire. I think you must forgive the fact that my curiosity is piqued."

"My errand is no business of yours, Thranduillion," she hissed.

"And there again, you have both the advantage of me, and have my curiosity piqued still further. You know my name, and yet I do not know yours. Nor do I know how you you come to know mine."

"Just because you are curious does not put me under any obligation to satisfy that curiosity." Eruanne pulled at her wrist, very aware of his proximity. She had to get away. Yet mixed with the need to flee was desire of a quite different kind. Where the clammy hands of the archivist had left her skin crawling, somehow the cool touch of this Sindar set her skin aflame.

"Not so fast," he said, voice dropping to a half-whisper. His sapphire eyes fixed on hers and he moved a fraction closer. He gazed at her intently. He couldn't help but notice the way her bosom rose and fell as she took shallow, rapid breaths. The low neckline of her dress exposed skin like alabaster, the smooth swell of her breasts drawing attention to the valley between them, the promise of beauty beyond his imagining hidden beneath the filmy fabric of her bodice.

"Let me go," she said, but her voice trembled. Her words brought him out of his reverie, but only long enough to draw his eyes to her lips, parted slightly. For a brief moment, he felt her breath on his lips. He swallowed. He recalled past times, past events, things he had seen which sickened him. He was better than this. He forced his gaze back to her eyes, and saw them wide and dark. What was it he saw in them? Fear? Anger? Something more primal? He released her wrist and took half a step back.

"What is your business here, madam?" he demanded. His voice held a note of command. "I am sworn to fight the Enemy in the East and all his fell minions. I shall have your answer. On whose side do you fight?"

"I fight for none but myself and my family, Princeling. My allegiance is my own, given neither to the powers of darkness beyond the Ephel Duath nor to the allegiance of mortals on whose coat tails you ride." Eruanne spat the words out in disgust.

"There are those in that allegiance of mortals whose lineage surpasses yours or mine by far, my beautiful and mysterious lady," said Legolas. "Be not so quick to cast aspersions."

"I care not for their lineage. What is it to me? All I desire is the freedom of my people, and I seek the key to that." Her green eyes flashed with passion as she met his gaze. Legolas' breath hitched for a moment. There was anger, passion in that gaze... but something else. Like sparks in a summer storm something crackled between them.

"Freedom? Are you sure that is your only desire?" His voice sounded huskily, as though he was no longer in control.

"What more could I desire?" Eruanne answered, but from the way her voice dropped to a shaky whisper, Legolas knew that the sparks were not his imagination. He knew that she felt them too. Taking a swift step forward, he tangled his hand in the heavy red waves of hair that surrounded her face like a cloud. Suddenly the moment seemed out of his control. A force stronger than either of them was at work, pulling them together. He leant towards her, and felt the tension in her body, the movement as she reached to meet him half way. The touch of her lips against his sparked like lightning setting off a wildfire which raced through his body. With a soft moan of desire which sent his blood surging in his veins, she leaned into the kiss for an instant.

Then just as abruptly, she broke the kiss. Stepping back, she delivered a resounding slap to his cheek. "Cursed dog of a Sindar. I will be beholden to none of your people." And she turned and fled up the stairs, clutching the dagger in her hand, its fiery writing now faded to invisibility.

Legolas ran to follow her, only to find that her head start had been enough for her to disappear into the myriad of labyrinthine passages.

**Shout-outs – over 50 reviews! You guys are just fantastic. Can't thank you enough for all the support.**

Team K Putt – yup, Legolas is hooked, isn't he!

Overlordred – well, you know what the map led to … but what's next? Couldn't resist jealous Legolas.

Allanna and Silence is Falling – thanks for the encouragement... doing my best to keep the updates fairly regular.

Bad Ass Female Fighter – suspense is my middle name ;-)

Bereth – well, yeah, he's jealous – but he's not gonna be as much of a so-and-so as his dad.

Guest – yeah, like I said, I love jealous Legolas.

Thanks to Zuzzzu, Sheepfluff1 (great name!), Rangerof Ice, SilenceisFalling, Sian22, Makoto Namikaze, TimeMistress3722, Brynhilda, Forestfirekid, and Cajun Phoenix for following/favouriting!


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

**Legolas' POV**

Legolas lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. As usual his mind seemed to keep circling back to the mysterious elleth. Her perfect form, clad in clinging silk. Her alabaster skin, her silken shoulders, one of which (when he drew close to her) had a tiny picture of a graceful, sinuous leopard ready to pounce, inked on her skin. An image which did not mar, but rather enhanced her beauty. Why was he so drawn towards a pair of almond shaped green eyes, wild dark red hair and the most tempting lips he'd ever seen? Lips he could still feel on his, lips that had caressed, then opened against his own. A kiss that had been as eager, as fiery as his own – until that slap.

Gimli stomped around their room in the citadel, gathering his meagre collection of possessions (the most important of which was the whetstone he used to keep his axe sharp) and stuffing them into a leather satchel. He was packing for the long march to the Black Gate. Every so often he threw a glare in Legolas' direction.

"Master Elf, I cannot believe you could be so dense. 'A diversion!' What possessed you to state the bleedin' obvious as though it was the key to all military strategy, past, present and future?"

"I was caught unawares. Aragorn clearly expected me to say something. So I said the first thing that came into my mind."

"The first thing that came into your mind? If that was the best you could muster, your mind must be pretty damn empty at the moment. Anyhow, why not pay attention to what was going on? It's not as if it wasn't, let me see, the single most important discussion barring the one in Rivendell, that you will ever be privy to."

"I lost my train of thought for a moment."

"Lost his train of thought, the lad says! As if..." Gimli sounded sceptical to say the least. He continued to stomp, muttering, "Pipeweed, where the hell did I put my pipeweed?" under his breath.

"Now the loss of that foul smelling herb would be a blessing indeed," said Legolas, naively believing the dangerous point of the conversation to have passed.

Never come between a dwarf and his nicotine addiction. Gimli stomped over to the side of the bed where Legolas was reclining and stood four-square in front of him. "Master Elf, you are insufferable to be around at the moment. And do you know what? I think it's not unconnected with that red-headed lass that stopped you being spitted through the guts at Helm's Deep. The same one that was with you on the Pelennor – you thought I didn't see that, didn't you... And the other night, coming back to our room with dabs of women's paint and powder on you! And, if I wasn't mistaken, the imprint of a hand on your cheek. Lost your train of thought, indeed. Gained an entirely different train of thought, I'd say."

A rush of conflicting emotions surged through Legolas. Absolute fury with the dwarf for catching him out, embarrassment, and... something else... something he couldn't put a name to at first. Not until he registered the words he'd just uttered.

"The slap... I didn't force her. She was as keen as I – just for a moment. Then the moment was gone and out of the blue she slapped me." Legolas realised the other emotion was shame. Shame that his friend (for unlikely as his relationship with Gimli was, he thought of the dwarf as his friend) would think he had deserved the slap for trying to take a female against her will.

Gimli took a step back till his legs met the other narrow bed in the room, then sat down heavily on the mattress. He looked at Legolas, expression inscrutable behind his ginger beard. "So, who is she then?"

Heaving a sigh, Legolas told Gimli most of the events of the previous week or two. He left out some points he thought were too embarrassing – his wash of jealousy on seeing the way she touched the whey-faced young archivist, for instance. Though there was something most disconcerting about the way the dwarf's eyes seemed to glint, the penetrating gaze he shot towards him every time the elf was economical with the truth. Legolas began to think Gimli was gifted with an uncanny ability to fill in the gaps in the narrative. The story done, the elf looked expectantly at the dwarf. The dwarf remained silent for some long moments while he mulled over the information. Eventually, he spoke. His words offered little comfort.

"You've got it bad, haven't you laddie?"

Legolas took refuge in a show of bravado. "She's pretty, that's all. It's months since I saw a pretty female of my own race, even an Avari. You expect me not to notice? We elves may be immortal, but we're still made of flesh and blood just like mortals. And I'm intrigued by the mystery of it all."

Gimli gave a grunt of disbelief. "Yeah, yeah. A pretty face and a bit of mystery. That's all, sure it is."

**Eruanne's POV**

The fiery writing on the dagger was etched into her mind.

Seek thou the paths amidst the rocks  
>Which lead where water falls from high<br>Above thy head; mid paths of owl and fox  
>The Window on the West you'll spy.<p>

Here was the clue to her quest to find the artefact of hidden power that would defeat Elohtolpa. But what did it mean? Some sort of riddle. The dagger had been made by her own kind, the Avari, but back in the ages before the Last Alliance. So the answer must lie in her own people's mythology.

The owl. The owl... sign of the huntress... And when did the huntress lead her wild maidens and their hounds in pursuit of their quarry? The full moon. But at this point, Eruanne hit a dead end. She couldn't think what the huntress and the moon could tell her. And, try as she might, it was hard to stay focussed when her body continually battled with her mind, memories of a pair of deep blue eyes gazing at her, the feel of a pair of lips upon hers, coaxing and demanding at the same time. The heat of his body, hard and muscled, pressed against her, heat that flooded through the thin silk she'd worn.

And her body not only betrayed her now, by continually interrupting her concentration with its demands. It had betrayed her yesterday in the crypt. For she had leaned into that kiss, she had pressed herself against that lithe, strong body. She had wanted the kiss, had wanted him to deepen it. It had taken every last drop of willpower to pull away when she did, to stop herself sinking into his arms, losing herself utterly in his embrace. Why? Why had she wanted this? After so many centuries, walking the plains and mountains of Middle Earth, content only to have Naurwen's companionship. Why did she suddenly yearn for a male body? And why did she yearn for the son of her sworn enemy?

When she pulled herself back, it had come flooding back to her. The devastation Thranduil had wrought on her sister's mind, her sister's heart, her sister's fea. The slap she'd delivered had been for the father. And nagging at the back of her mind was a sense of the unfairness of it. For the slap had landed on the son, who was surely blameless. No. NO! Not blameless, not Thranduillion. The blood of his father must run in the son's veins. Yes, he was tempting, tempting to the point of madness. But had that not been the mesmer Thranduil had cast upon her sister? She was not going to make that mistake with the son.

But again that little voice nagged at her. The son had been brave in battle, fighting beside his friends and comrades, even beside a dwarf. And all of Arda knew how much Thranduil hated dwarves. There was a difference between father and son, a difference which spoke in the son's favour. And he had met her challenge on the battlefield with good humour, and had acknowledge her win as good sport. How many ellyn would take being bested by an elleth with such good grace? And now, if the rumours running the length and breadth of the White City were anything to go by, he was setting off to near certain death with the Captains of the West in a desperate last throw of the die against the Shadow of Mordor.

She shook her head, as if to try to shake sense into herself. Why should it matter? He would surely die. Her only aim was to survive the chaos and see if she could carve out some modest measure of freedom for her people in the dark chaos that lay ahead, by overthrowing Elohtolpa. She would watch the Prince of Mirkwood ride to Ithilien and from there to the Black Gate, then she would pursue her quest.

Suddenly it hit her... the huntress of the moon. Ithilwen! The land of the moon – Ithilien. That was the first part of the riddle.

She brushed her hair back from her eyes. The elven prince's fate seemed twined with hers in a most mysterious way. It looked as if her path also took her to Ithilien – she would be dogging his footsteps for a while yet.

**So – the mystery thickens. Let me know what you think! I love to hear from all of you in reviews.**

**Shout outs:**

**Thanks for all the reviews.**

**Bad Ass Female Fighter – yes, Legolas is stung by it! Looks like it still stings the next day ;-)**

**Allanna Stone – thanks!**

**Overlordred – yes, what forces indeed. But we've got a way to go yet before either of them admit what's going on.**

**TheParanoidGraveRobber – thanks.**

**Venessa – I love a good fan girl scream :-D**

**SisterofBattle – glad you liked the creepy dungeon, and the kiss.**

**Mt – trying to update at least once a week...**

**And thanks to everyone who's followed/favourited: Annamorgan96, BDoven, StupidOtaku, Mistgirl1423, Aoine, Nikieboy, and Mtager.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

**Flashback: Firiel's POV**

Firiel sat curled up in a ball on the bottom of her bed. She bit her lower lip and angrily wiped a tear away from her eye with the back of her hand. How had she gotten into this state? She thought back to the moment two weeks earlier. The King had followed her into the high vaulted hall in the centre of his underground realm, where a subterranean waterfall cascaded from the shadowy roof way above their heads and plunged into depths hidden beyond even the keen sight of Elves.

She had watched as he made his way towards with a cat-like grace, poised, elegant yet at the same time irresistibly masculine. He stepped in close to her, so close she could feel the heat from his body. Her breath hitched. Her gaze was drawn as if by some magnetic force to his cerulean orbs. Somehow it felt as though every fibre of her being was aware of his physical presence, the play of muscles under the fine silk of his robes, the width of his shoulders. She looked helplessly upon the beauty of his face and it was as if something melted inside her. Those high cheekbones, the broad, noble brow, the temptingly full lips.

The temptingly full lips which moved ever closer until she felt his breath on her skin. Then his mouth found hers in a searing kiss which shattered her to the very core of her being. One hand cradled the hollow of her waist, warm, firm, possessive against the thin fabric of her dress. The other traced patterns along her collar bone, sending her dizzy with desire. With a yearning moan she parted her lips under the onslaught of his plundering mouth. Her need rose to meet his, and their tongues duelled. Every plane of his hard body pressed against her soft curves.

Then just as suddenly he pulled away from her. To her shock, she saw that for a fleeting moment the glamour he cloaked himself in had slipped, revealing the fearsome scars wrought by dragon fire centuries earlier. She shrank back in fright. He caught her look and his face took on a fearsome sneer.

"Not so beautiful now, am I? Do you still desire me, scarred as I really am? Or do you fear that the scars on the outside do but hide even more fearsome scars within?" His voice, normally so musical and seductive, was almost harsh, laced with an undercurrent of bitter laughter. Then with a shimmer, the glamour slipped back into place.

Without conscious volition, her hand rose towards his face. Her fingers touched his cheek.

"Let me heal you... Wrap you in my care, in my..."

The King did not let her finish the sentence. "Fool of a girl. You really think that love conquers all, that you can make me better, make me whole again?" He reached out and cupped her chin, this time in a possessive, iron grip. "Would that the world were so simple." With a swift movement, he dipped his head to hers, kissing her harshly, needily. Then just as swiftly, he turned heel and swept away.

Ooooo

With a start, Firiel realised she had brought her fingers up to her lips, tracing the skin his lips had seared with fiery kisses. But after he had swept away, she had seen nothing more of him for days, weeks. Then there was that fateful night when he had come to her chamber. She remembered hands, calloused with wielding a sword, tracing fire across her skin, his body hard, demanding, hers soft, yielding. She had felt herself melt beneath his touch, then catch flame, then soar like a bird of prey on wings of desire, desire he met and matched, then fed until it was all consuming.

Then nothing. After that one night of passion, she did not see him alone. In public he was distant, aloof, impersonal. More weeks, stretching out to nearly a month. Was she so easily forgotten? Had it meant nothing to him? Sometimes his hand brushed hers, and instantly her body remembered every last detail. But then he would give her a disdainful look and sweep away. Why did he tease her so? Her body yearned for him in ways she had never imagined before she met him, ways that made her cheeks blush a deep crimson. She woke most days to find her body aflame with the after effects of the pictures her mind had conjured in her sleep.

Heaving a sigh, she slid sideways till she lay on the bed, arms hugging her knees to her chest. She knew that she was slipping fast into unsafe territory. She was more than half way to loving him, to losing her soul.

Suddenly she heard the creak of hinges. Startled, she sat bolt upright as the heavy wooden door swung inwards. A slight figure flitted from the shadowy passageway beyond, putting a finger to lips only half glimpsed beneath the hood of the cloak that concealed all identifying features. Firiel began to speak, but stopped, breath held, as the hood fell back.

"My love," said a familiar voice, and her sister flung herself to her knees at the side of her bed, grasping her hand. "I have come for you."

"What? How?" Firiel was aware that she was babbling, but couldn't seem to stop herself. Eventually Eruanne calmed her.

"Here, put on these leggings and this tunic. I have a warm coat with me. We have people to help us, people to lead us to a secret doorway. I have two horses tethered but a short distance away. We can follow the forest road east to the River Running, then make our way south, skirting the forest."

Eruanne led Firiel into the passage. There a tall elleth, dressed as a soldier, waited in the shadows. To Firiel's surprise, the strange elleth also had red hair like her sister's.

"This way," said the stranger, her voice low but musical. "There is a side door unlocked."

"Are you sure?" asked Firiel.

"Yes. A friend has unlocked it for me. He disapproves of the King's behaviour."

Firiel bit her lip. What would this friend think if he knew that she had been a willing participant, however cruel and heartless the King's treatment of her had been? Cruel, heartless... but not cold. Never cold. He burned with a passion to match her own. Which was why she harboured a secret deep within her soul: that part of her did not wish to leave.

Unaware of Firiel's inner turmoil, the redhead continued. "Besides which, he has a position such that it is easy for him to get keys to hidden places." A tiny smile played around the elleth's lips. "Besides which, he will do almost anything to impress me."

Ooooo

The journey south was slow and tortuous. Eruanne was shocked at how drawn and grief-stricken Firiel looked. She asked several times whether anything had been forced on her sister, but Firiel simply shook her head sadly. But it was clear that she was exhausted – tired and drained. And sickening for something. Some sort of ague which left her vomiting and weak. Eruanne racked her brains and her knowledge of herb lore to try to come up with some palliative for her sister's illness.

Things became dramatically worse about four weeks into their journey as they crossed the brown lands of Rhovanion. They were riding amid scrubland, bracken and gorse when suddenly a fox started from beneath a bush. Firiel's horse reared in fright, and Firiel, weak from her illness and grief, was thrown to the ground. Eruanne leapt from her own steed and ran to her sister's side. Having checked quickly, she established that Firiel probably had a couple of broken ribs, but none of her limbs was broken. She raised her shoulders gently, and cradled her in her arms, offering her the water skin she carried.

"Just small sips," she cautioned. Then suddenly Firiel winced with a new pain, clutching her hands to her stomach. Then she struggled free from her sister's grasp and rolled onto her side, giving a soft moan. Eruanne's eyes widened with horror as she took in the growing dark red stain on the back of her sister's skirt.

**Shout-outs**

**Thanks for all the reviews...**

**Overlordred – well, I'm sure the thought of making those badass elf babies has crossed both their minds by now, but as I've said before, I'm all about the slow burn. Am I a big tease? You betcha, guilty as charged! But we will get there eventually.**

**Bad Ass Female Fighter – whoah – you live up to your name, girl!**

**Sister of Battle – I love Gimli. Great to give him a bit of a part.**

**Allana, PinkLemonadeChocolate – sorry for the slow updating, real life has been craaaaazy!**

**Thanks to RangerofAsh, Emerald999, lahluna, TheDarkAngelCreed, Bul-Kathos, ssooo, ArianeKeisha and Swanny29 for following/favouriting. **

**The review button's just there, everyone. Unashamed review hussy here – I love reviews.**


End file.
